


Fair Game

by dino



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Prompt Fic, Schmoop, Scrabble, moonblossom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 23:11:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dino/pseuds/dino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What started out as a game of Scrabble ended up in a revelation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Begins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/gifts).



W-O-O-D

“Eight points,” mutters John, as he notes down his score.

Sherlock grins, and adds W-E-S-T above John’s word. “That’ll be 15 points, plus the triple word score. 45 points.”

“Westwood isn’t a word, Sherlock.”

“Yes it is. I know what it is. _You_ know what it is.”

“No, Sherlock. It’s not a Scrabble word.”

“Just because you can’t wear anything more exciting than those infernal jumpers doesn’t mean that the rest of us should be stuck using plebeian vocabulary.”

John’s face turned an interesting shade of puce. “If you can’t play by the rules, Sherlock, what’s the point of this?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in annoyance. “What kind of idiot made these rules anyway? And as I recall, I had much more interesting plans for the night. You’re the one who insisted on this daft game in the first place.”

John said, “Excuse me for not wanting to spend my spare time fondling dead people whilst an attractive lady who’s smitten with you lurks around in the background.”

“I do not fondle, as you bloody well know. And Miss Hooper is not smitten, and she doesn’t lurk,” replied Sherlock. “If she’s so attractive, why haven’t you tried to pull her yet? It’s not like you haven’t tried with every other female we’ve ever come across, save Mrs. Hudson, and I’d wager that’s only because she’s not your type.”

“Fuck. You. I haven’t tried to pull Molly, because she’s my friend, and I’d never have a chance,” said John.

“You never had a chance with ‘Anthea’ either,” said Sherlock. You could almost hear the scare quotes.

“I know that, you git. Thanks for reminding me. With Anthea, I had a go, because I knew—“

Sherlock cut off John’s inevitable speech. “OH.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Sherlock?”

“It’s not that you fancy any of the women with whom you’ve shamelessly flirted,” said Sherlock.

“What’re you on about, Sherlock? Of course I fancy those women. Why else would I flirt with them, take them on dates--which you inevitably interrupt—and then try to have it off later? It’s not like I’m secretly pining for someone else.” John trailed off at the end.

Sherlock grinned at John. “I’ve seen but I had not observed. How could I have been so blind!? It was right here in front of my face all along.”

“What are you talking about, Sherlock?”

“You haven’t tried to pull any woman with whom you’d have a genuine chance of keeping anything long-term. They’re all temporary. They’re all transitions to what you really desire.”

John’s face turned a deeper red. His breath came in shorter bursts. His palms grew sweaty, then clammy. “That’s ridiculous, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stepped forward, crowding John back towards the sofa. John was surprised, because he couldn’t remember either of them standing up in the first place.

“No, John. It is anything but.” His voice lowered an octave. “The reason you’ve not tried to pull Molly is because you’ve been waiting for me.”

John’s pupils grew wide. His breathing grew faster. He could hear his heart thudding loudly. His eyebrows had migrated to his hairline. “Rubbish.”

“No, John. This is when you’re supposed to say ‘brilliant’, or ‘that’s amazing’.”

“Let’s save that for the pillow talk, shall we?,” John said.

“An excellent idea,” replied Sherlock. 


	2. 45 Points

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to quite end it at Chapter 1, so I decided to keep going. I'm not exactly a fan of the concept that two people who admit their feelings will necessarily wind up in the sack within the first five minutes of the outing of those feelings. I'm also not a fan of those that progress too quickly. I don't know if I'll stop here or not.

Sherlock moved closer to John.

“So you want this too,” asked John.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “Ever since that night you wore that ridiculous striped jumper.”

John finally noticed that Sherlock’s breathing was coming in short bursts too. He grabbed Sherlock by the shirt collar, and dragged him down to the couch. “You can’t tower over me and expect this to happen, Sherlock.” He tilted Sherlock’s head back, and leaned in for a kiss. All the while, he ran his right hand through Sherlock’s hair, and cupped Sherlock’s jaw with his left.

Sherlock was returning the kiss in earnest, nibbling gently at John’s lips. He ran his fingers down John’s strong back, enjoying the feel of the rough wool that hid those beautiful muscles. When John opened his mouth to let Sherlock in, Sherlock moaned with pleasure, and tentatively snaked his tongue out to meet John’s. They started slow, tasting each other and enjoying the sensations of having the other man so close.

“That was incredible, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grinned. “There’s the John I know.”

John laughed. “Shut up, you clot.”

“Is every challenge that you bring up to me going to end in us kissing? If so, I heartily approve,” said Sherlock.

At that, John threw back his head, and laughed even harder. “Only if it’s a legitimate word. I won’t have you making up words to just use up letters. I’m willing to relax the rules a bit for your sake, but don’t think I’m a pushover.”

Sherlock joined in on laughing. “I’d never think that, John. Now. Write down my score, and take your turn.” It seemed as if Sherlock was willing to play after all.

John grinned in triumph, and contemplated his letters. 


	3. Quelle surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few weeks later, John and Sherlock are waiting for the results of one of Sherlock's tests. What else can they find to do?

Since that eventful night three weeks ago, Sherlock and John have been exploring their boundaries carefully. It’s been a while since John’s carried a torch for his detective, and he wants to take his time enjoying each stage of their newly found comfort level. Sherlock is content with their pace, because it gives him more time to make mental notes about everything, without having to rush through and reach some predetermined goal that every other dalliance has taken.

“How much longer is that electrophoresis going to _take!?,”_ asked a rather irate John.

“I still haven’t loaded the wells, John. Patience.” Sherlock was intensely focused on getting the pipette exactly centred into the holes of the agarose gel, making triply sure not to lose any the sample. The last thing he wanted was a blurry reading. After he loaded the last well, and slid the lid into place, he turned on the power, and let it start to run. “Now we just wait until the dye travels the length of the gel, and go from there.”

“Oh of _course,”_ said John. “Everyone knows that. How. Much. Longer. Greg’s been up my arse for the past hour about the results, because you won’t answer your bloody phone, even though it’s right there next to you.”

“I had to concentrate, John. Some of us take pride in a job done well.”

John rolled his eyes. “If you’re not going to be doing anything else but sit there for the next half hour, what say we set up the Scrabble board and have another go?”

Sherlock sighed. “Why do you insist on playing that infernal game, John. It doesn’t even have anything to do with your verbal prowess. Any idiot with a decent set of tiles and a lucky slot could win the game.”

“Yes, but this idiot won the last game, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“That’s only because of your tedious insistence on imaginary rules,” said Sherlock.

“They are not imaginary, you ponce. They’re right there on the inside of the lid. Right there. See? Rules,” said John.

“Bore someone else with your plebeian concerns.” Sherlock was getting huffy, but had still made no move to get up or to suggest anything different.

“Oh,” said John.

“What’s that supposed to mean,” asked Sherlock, with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re trying to distract me. Too bad. Here, choose your tiles. I’ll even give you a head start and let you go first.”

Sherlock grinned a feral grin. L-A-T-E-X, laid from the opening square all the way to the double letter score with the X resting on it.

John dutifully recorded the 40 points with an eyeroll. “I thought ‘any idiot’ could win this, Sherlock. Congratulations.”

“You’re just jealous that you didn’t think of such a brilliant word,” Sherlock sniffed in response.

John didn’t bother to reply. Instead, for the next few moves, both men remained relatively silent. The sounds of traffic outside the window were a soothing backdrop to the cool air wafting in through the windows. It was a lovely evening.

Q-U-E-L-L, just one letter shy of the triple word score. John was confident in his move, knowing that no other word in English began that way, and that all the S’s were spoken for. He took his 14 points with a smug grin.

Sherlock snorted with amusement, and quietly laid down an E to the bottom of John’s word.

“That is not a word, Sherlock,” shouted John.

“Yes it is. It’s French,” said Sherlock.

“You can’t use foreign words,” said John.

“I let you get away with Helios, and that’s Latin,” said Sherlock.

“Technically, it’s Greek,” said John.

Sherlock turned crimson at getting the two languages mixed up for a moment in the heat of his annoyance. How could he let John one-up him on knowledge of Greek and Latin? Blasphemy.

“So you admit that it’s foreign,” he growled.

“I admit nothing,” said John. “Besides, if you wanted to challenge the word, you should have done so when you had the opportunity to do so after I put the word down.”

“How the hell am I supposed to know that,” shouted an increasingly irate Sherlock.

“It’s. In. The. Rules.” John was gritting his teeth. His brows were furrowed in frustration. Who knew that it would only take ten minutes for both of them to be at odds?

“Sod the rules, sod this game, and sod everything else about this damnable case,” said Sherlock.

It was then that John really took a hard look at Sherlock. The usually unruffled man was breathing heavily, with a fine sheen of sweat over his forehead. His cheeks were both bright red from blushing. His eyes were darting around the room. He was fidgeting.

“Oh,” said John.

Sherlock glared eloquently.

John quietly got up from his chair, walked behind Sherlock, and wrapped his arms around the seated man. He kissed Sherlock’s head, and said, “I know it’s been a shite week. You’ve not gotten any sleep, we haven’t had any time together, and this case is really wearing you down.”

Sherlock still sat stiff in his chair. “I’m not worn down,” he muttered.

“I know,” said John. “That’s why you’ve been snappish all night.”

“I’m not snappish,” Sherlock replied petulantly, with a hint of a whine insinuating itself into his tone.

John rubbed soothing circles into Sherlock’s shoulderblades. “I know.”

The two men stayed like that for another twenty minutes. The electrophoresis machine hummed in the background, completely forgotten, as John soothed out days of tension, and Sherlock relaxed bit by bit.

Sherlock gave a soft moan, and said, “John, that’s ... that’s brilliant.”

“There’s the Sherlock I know,” said John, with a teasing smirk.

In reply, Sherlock picked up the remainder of the buffer solution and calmly poured it down the front of John’s trousers. 


	4. Thirsty.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They play another round, but things get a bit more heated.

John had just come back from a grocery run, and noticed that Sherlock was sat at the dining table, with the scrabble board already in front of him, and the first word already laid out. John opened the fridge, dumped everything in there (bags and all), and plopped himself down on the other side. “I thought you never wanted to play again after the last ... Incident,” said John.

Sherlock sniffed, and looked put out. “That wasn’t an Incident, John. I was merely expressing my disgust at your puerile word choices which perpetually left me at odd corners to get anything done. And don’t give me that look. We’re both aware that you’re well capable of forming coherent words.”

“It was late, Sherlock. I was tired. I wasn’t at the top of my game. Flinging the board into the fireplace isn’t an expression of disgust. Threatening bodily harm on me for trying to retrieve the board isn’t the same as scoffing at my word choices. You’re a bloody menace when you get it into your head to be one, you know.”

“I thought that the new board would make it up to you, John. If it won’t, then I’ll just have to give the benighted thing to Mrs. Hudson.”

It really was a nice board. Each square had raised edges, so that the tiles wouldn’t jostle about. It was mounted on a rotating platform of some sort. The tiles themselves were of a beautiful wood.

“You could have just apologised, Sherlock,” said John reproachfully.

“It’s your move, John.”

S-U-L-P-H-U-R.

“What the hell is that, John?”

“It’s a mineral, Sherlock. It’s a non-metal. Has a rotten-egg smell. I could go on.”

“That’s not how you spell it, John.”

“Yes it is, Sherlock.”

“No, John. Both RSC _and_ IUPAC have agreed on S-U-L-F-U-R.”

“What the hell difference does that make!?” John’s voice gets a little louder.

“It makes _all_ the difference. It’s their job to regulate these things. Without adherence to an agree-upon set of rules, we’d have chaos.”

“That’s sure as hell not what you said the other night when you nicked my gun for the billionth time, Sherlock.” John’s face was getting red.

“I don’t see what the one has to do with the other,” replied Sherlock, looking just as cool and collected as he always did.

“What it has to do-- you poncy git! You just said that there need to be rules to be obeyed.”

“I was merely observing that flouting the rules of the _governing bodies_ responsible for the standardisation of chemistry’s language, spelling, and the rest should have some kind of say over how it’s done.”

“Yeah!? Well tell that to every fucking school teacher I’ve had since high school chem! It’s an acceptable spelling!”

“Fine,” snapped Sherlock. “The next time we’re in the vicinity of your high school “chem teacher”, we’ll ask him.” John could hear the inverted commas dropping into place.

“Fuck this, I’m making some tea.”

“Just a splash of milk, please, no sugar. And grab one of those chocolate digestives while you’re up, OK?”

John had finished pouring out the tea, with the splash of milk, and had the biscuits arranged on the plate before he realised what had just happened.

“How do you do that to me, Sherlock? It’s like your commands go from my brain right to my body, with no stopping point in between.” John still looked annoyed, but was smiling down at Sherlock fondly.

“Is that so, John? I fear I’ve wasted that talent, then.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Sherlock?”

Sherlock grinned, and said nothing more. The sulphur-sulfur argument was clearly forgotten, as Sherlock let the piping hot tea soothe him from the inside out. John chose to enjoy the momentary respite. They both munched the digestives, and continued playing for a short while longer. As soon as the tea was finished, John went to refill their cups. He returned, bearing both cups with a fresh batch of tea.

“Come here, John.”

 John set down the mugs, and walked over to Sherlock. Sherlock stood, and stepped right up into John’s personal space. John looked startled, and then understood what was happening.

“Kiss me, John.”

Sherlock bent down, John leaned up, and immediately the two exchanged increasingly deeper kisses. Sherlock’s squirmed his hands under John’s jumper, and rubbed at the tightened muscles of John’s back. He gently pushed his crotch into John’s and rubbed slowly. John moaned, and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, down his face, across his chest, and down to his back. John opened his mouth in invitation, which Sherlock took enthusiastically. Their tongues gently played with each other, as they tasted around the new territory. The rubbing grew slightly more insistent from John. Sherlock countered by unbuttoning John’s shirt under the jumper, and running his hands down John’s sides. John jerked back, giggling helplessly.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead, he trailed a line of soft kisses down John’s cheek, across his jawline, down his neck, and over to his adam’s apple. He sucked very gently, so as not to leave a mark. John moaned more, and responded in kind. He unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt, giving him access to the creamy white swell of pectoral muscle, which he enjoyed exploring with his tongue.

Sherlock got John’s  jumper off, but kept the shirt on. John finished unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt. The two men rubbed their fronts together, relishing the contact of skin against skin. Sherlock leaned down and nipped at John’s ear, which caused John to grind his crotch against Sherlock involuntarily. The friction was starting to build tension.

John asked, “Do you mind if we move this to the couch? My legs are starting to shake.”

Sherlock nodded. The two walked over to the couch. John sat down first, and got comfortable. Sherlock settled down next to him, and draped his legs across John’s lap. “Now where were we,” asked Sherlock. In reply, John leaned over, and nipped at Sherlock’s earlobe. His hands roamed downwards, and played with the soft dusting of hairs lining Sherlock’s chest and stomach. Sherlock fought back laughter as he gently rubbed at John’s nipples.

John moaned really lustily at that. “Sherlock, _please,_ can we slow this down a bit?” John’s pupils were wide open, his skin flushed red, and his breath came in pants. His heart was racing, and there were light pink marks where Sherlock had bitten or sucked. He looked completely and utterly turned on, and ready to move it to the next level.

“We’ll go as slowly as you’d like, John. Just understand that if we do slow it down, I’m going to need to excuse myself and finish off what you started.”

“Oh. No worries there, Sherlock. I’m sure I can help you out when the time comes. I’d just like to enjoy this, enjoy _you._ You’re so damned beautiful, that I want to drink you all in.”

Sherlock beamed at him, and shrugged off his shirt. “Drink away.”

 


	5. Game, set, match.

John did look. He looked with his eyes, and followed with his hands, starting from the top of Sherlock’s head, and moving down to his neck, his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. Sherlock tried to keep still, but couldn’t help squirming with the pleasure of being adored. When John reached Sherlock’s hands, he twined their fingers together, and held on, while he leaned forward to nip at Sherlock’s lips and explore his mouth further.

 

Sherlock ground his pelvis upwards, to try to get more friction.

 

John laughed, “Can’t wait, can you?”

 

Sherlock groaned, and said, “I can wait all night, John. You mistake my pleasure for impatience.”

 

John lifted their hands above their heads, and snagged both wrists in his left hand, while using his right hand to rub at Sherlock’s erection through his too-tight trousers. He leaned forward to lick Sherlock’s earlobe. John whispered, “Call it pleasure, call it impatient, call it whatever you want. It still feels delightfully filthy.”

 

Sherlock moaned at John’s hands, which seemed to be all over the place at the same time, rubbing and tickling. John’s tongue roamed of its own volition across acres of exposed, taut flesh. Sherlock reached down, and yanked John’s shirt over his head. John unbuttoned Sherlock’s trousers. Sherlock unzipped John’s jeans, and reached inside to grab onto John’s straining cock.

 

“Looks like I’m not the only impatient one,” Sherlock said.

 

John grinned, and shimmied himself out of his jeans, as Sherlock mirrored his actions.

 

“Bugger,” said Sherlock. “Condoms are in the fridge, in that box marked “fingers”.”

 

“What the shit, Sherlock!? You don’t expect me to go rummaging about in a box of disconnected _fingers,_ do you?”

 

Sherlock replied, “There aren’t any actual fingers in there. I just labelled it as such so that Mrs Hudson wouldn’t take it into her head to open the box.”

 

John threw his head back, and laughed from the very bottom of his stomach. Sherlock couldn’t help responding with a broad grin. He loved watching John laugh, or smile, or generally be happy. John got up from the couch, hard cock bobbing all the way, and ran to the fridge. He found the box.

 

“Awfully optimistic, aren’t we?” he asked.

 

“I didn’t know what kind you’d need, having never engaged with you in that manner, so I chose to cover all my bases,” Sherlock sniffed.

 

It was with a look of genuine fondness that John said, “You are one mad bastard.”

 

Sherlock returned the fond look with one of his own, and replied, “And you can’t spell Sulfur.”

 

Both men laughed at this, as Sherlock ripped off the condom wrapper with his teeth, and pulled it out.

 

John said, “Let me.”

 

He squeezed the tip of the condom, and placed it onto Sherlock’s cock. He then slipped it past the head with his fingers to ensure a secure fit. He then used his mouth to unroll the rest of the condom onto Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock arched up and cried out, “Yesssssssss”, stretching the sibilants as John worked his magic. 

 

John winked at Sherlock and kept bobbing his head up and down, getting the condom slippery with his saliva. Sherlock thrust his hips upwards, and played with his nipples, as he cried out John’s name over and over again, as if it were a chant. When he got close to climax, he desperately grabbed John’s hair, and cried, “Stop, please! I don’t want to finish yet. I want you to look at me when I climax.”

 

John nodded in agreement. He would have spoken, but he found himself gasping for air. Sherlock reached under the couch, and pulled out a bottle of lube.

 

“Mrs. Hudson never looks under the couch. Bending down that far would cause her hip and back problems.”

 

John said, “If we could please avoid mentioning Mrs. H again tonight, I’d be eternally grateful.”

 

Sherlock grinned, and flipped open the bottle of lube. He worked his way towards John’s ass, starting from the top of the crack, downwards, until he gently began to massage the hole. “You’ll have to relax a bit, John. You’re too tense.”

 

“Easy for you to say,” muttered John. “You don’t have Greek god come to life hovering over you.”

 

Sherlock smiled more widely. When others called him handsome, it always felt superficial. When John did it, it seemed to come from somewhere deeper. He leaned over and kissed John gently, using his free hand to rub small circles into John’s shoulders. He felt John lean into the touch, and the muscles of the shoulders relax. Sherlock kept kissing, and moved down towards his back, to help relax those muscles too. As John relaxed more and more, Sherlock’s finger sought deeper and deeper entrance into John’s hole. John felt himself unconsciously open himself as Sherlock worked the finger into him. Something about having the sensory overload of  so much Sherlock­—Sherlock’s hard chest rubbing against his, Sherlock’s deft fingers working away all the day’s tensions, Sherlock’s cock rubbing against his, slicking up further and further with John’s precum—seemed to distract John from the inevitable pain that came from the first push against his hole. Sherlock managed to get one finger in with a minimum of fuss, which encouraged him to slather on more lube, and try to work a second finger in.

 

John hissed in pain.

 

“John, do you need me to stop? I can pull out and we can enjoy—“

 

“No. Don’t stop. Just go a bit slower, yeah?”

 

Sherlock nodded, and slowed down his invasion. By the time the second finger was all the way in, John and Sherlock were sweating profusely. The raw scent of each other’s bodies was fuelling both their arousal, and the slick slippery rub of bare skin against bare skin was amazing.

 

Sherlock worked a third finger into John, to try to spread him open enough to take his cock for a proper ride. By now, John was extremely horny, very sweaty, and moaning loudly. Sherlock gave a wolfish grin, and started to work his way down to John’s chest, to nip at and lick John’s nipples.

 

“Mmm. I love how you taste, John. I love how you feel under me.”

 

“If you love it so much, why don’t you get on with it, and fuck me already!”

 

Both Sherlock’s eyebrows shot straight up into his fringe. “I thought you wanted to go slowly? I’ve been trying to respect your wishes, John.”

 

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock. If we go any slower, we’ll be in retirement by the time I fucking get to goddamn cum. Please. Just get in me, and fuck me into the couch.”

 

Sherlock became even more turned on by John’s commanding tone. He flipped John over onto his stomach, and lined up his cock with John’s entrance. He eased his way in, all the while rubbing up and down John’s body. John squirmed, and squealed a bit. Sherlock slowed down.

 

“Please, Sherlock. Just get it in all the way. Once you do, I’ll get used to it. This is driving me spare.”

 

Sherlock didn’t pay heed to John’s begging. He slowly, carefully worked his way all the down to the base of his cock. Once he was in, he stayed put, and gave John’s earlobe a nibble. Both hands were playing with John’s nipples. John had reached down to give his own cock a tug.

 

John took a few deep, ragged breaths, and said, “OK. I’m good. Keep going. You feel amazing inside me.”

 

Sherlock pulled out slightly, and pushed forward again, rocking both their bodies and the couch slightly. John said, “Ooooooh, that’s the stuff right there.”

 

For the next few minutes, Sherlock worked back and forth, in shallow, slow thrusts, until John got used to the feeling. Once he did, he went a bit faster, but kept up the shallowness of the thrusts. John began to meet Sherlock’s thrusts with his own, encouraging Sherlock to go deeper and faster. When Sherlock did try to slow it down a bit more, John reached around, and slammed Sherlock’s hips forward.

 

“Faster,” John growled.

 

Sherlock started to really get into it, and began longer, more forceful thrusts. He’d pull himself almost all the way out, and slam home. He reached around and grabbed John’s cock, and started pulling at it in sync to his thrusting. John cried out, and reached for Sherlock’s head to pull him in for a sideways kiss. The two men licked each other’s lips, and tasted each other while lost in the throes of pleasure.

 

Sherlock’s thrusting grew more sporadic, as he felt the crest of his orgasm rise. John knew what was coming, and braced himself for it. Sherlock completely forgot about John’s cock, and gripped John’s hips with both hands. He slammed in and out very quickly, trying to get enough friction going to put him over the edge.

 

“Yes, Sherlock. Come for me. Come on.”

 

Sherlock threw his head back, and screamed out, “Jaaaaaaaaaaaawn” as he came hard. His cock pulsed a few times, releasing the cum into the condom. Sherlock’s breathing grew ragged and tired. Sweat was dripping freely from his body all over Johns. John pushed Sherlock off of himself, and straddled his hips. He looked down and Sherlock’s wrecked body, and stroked himself. He used one of his hands to bring Sherlock’s hands up to his chest.

 

Sherlock got the hint, and rolled John’s nipples around until they formed peaks, and then rubbed them while John tossed off. Before too long, John felt himself getting close. Sherlock could feel John’s body tensing up, ready to explode. He ripped John’s hands off of the achingly hard cock, and threw John down onto the couch. In one clean motion, Sherlock’s mouth swallowed up John’s cock, and sucked, as his hands played with John’s balls and nipples.

 

John didn’t expect the onslaught of warmwetpornographicallyfilthy that hit him all at once. He dissolved into a helpless pile of pleasure. Sherlock gave one good hard suck, and John lost control. John held Sherlock’s head tightly, as his cock emptied itself into Sherlock’s eager mouth. Sherlock sucked clean what he could, and looked up at John with a smile.

 

“John, if every scrabble game ends this way, I’m up for it any time you want.”

 

John said, “Come here, you daft bugger,” and gave Sherlock a sloppy kiss. They lay that way for about a minute before things got too sticky and messy for anyone’s comfort.

 

“Shower?”

 

“Please.”


	6. Chapter 6

A-F-T-E-R-S

“18 points, Sherlock.”

Sherlock made the note. He added “W-A-R-M” to John’s word.

“What the shit is an afters-warm? That's not even a word.”

“AFTER-SWARM, John. We’ve only been living out here for five years. One would think you’d been paying attention to some of what I’ve been telling you about all this time.”

“How the hell am I supposed to pay attention to everything you say, when you say so very much, Sherlock?”

"You're supposed to pay attention to everything I say, because you love me, John."

"Sometimes I wonder why," said John, although there was no heat in it. 

"Because," said Sherlock, "I did exactly as you'd asked me to do all those years ago, and bowed out of London to come here to be closer to Harry, Clara, and the kids. Because my honey is the best in all of the county, and your infernal cups of tea wouldn't taste nearly as delicious without it." Sherlock leaned over the table. "Because," he whispered, "I still find you as sexy as the first time we fucked on that sofa in Baker street."

John's pupils dialted. 

"Want to prove that to me, Sherlock?"

"Easily done," said Sherlock. "You make the tea." 

John spluttered. "Not the tea, you clot!"

He need not have bothered to specify, as Sherlock had already begun to unbutton his shirt. 

-END-

**Author's Note:**

> My friend Moonblossom wanted to read a fic about Sherlock and John playing Scrabble. I didn't have time to really fill out the prompt into a fic where the game recurs, or becomes more involved, but I couldn't get the image out of my head. I was going to write a short little note on her Tumblr saying where I thought it would go, but decided to actually write it out instead. Sherlock (in my head) would try to use a word that he knew but wouldn't necessarily be an Official Scrabble Word. John, having actually played the game, would try to steer it in the right direction. And, as any kind of bickering that happens, the subject would promptly switch to something more personal.


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